


Pretty Boy

by harryandlouisandpuppies



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: I wrote this for school, M/M, Minor Niall, Minor elounor, and a little in love, creative writing, harry doesnt talk, harry draws louis, harry is a little obsessed, minor eleanor, pretty boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 15:00:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3124481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harryandlouisandpuppies/pseuds/harryandlouisandpuppies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is little obsessed and a little in love with a pretty boy</p><p> </p><p>- basically 1500+ words describing how pretty Louis is <br/>- I wrote this for my creative writing class</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty Boy

Sitting in the dark corner of a badly lit coffee shop. The clock reads 2:58. 2 minutes. In 2 minutes the coffee shop door will open, a bell will ring and in will walk a pretty boy with feathery caramel hair and eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea. He will be accompanied by a girl and boy and they’ll sit at the booth next to the biggest window in the shop. The girl will walk up to the counter, swaying her hips knowing that the magnificent blue eyes are watching her. She will order them beverages and baked goods, the pretty boys pretty blonde would crack a joke and laugh at it, his loud voice booming through the café, thick with an Irish accent. The girl would return, stroke the pretty boys’ pretty arm, kiss his rosy cheek and sit down next to him. They would exchange small touches and laugh together and talk. The way the pretty boy talked was always amazing. The way his eyes would light up like sparkling blue Christmas lights, the way his arms would move his hands and his hands would move his fingers. The way he would smile so big his eyes would turn into crescents and the corners would crinkle and he would shine so bright. Breathtaking.

Today though, something was different. They walked in at 3:01, there wasn’t a smile gracing the beautiful boys face today, he didn’t watch the girl not sway her hips. He focused hard on the boy who tried, who for the first time _tried_ to make him smile. His voice loud enough for everyone to hear. Something the Irish one said got the pretty boy to laugh his magnificent laugh, albeit a little forced, it still cause butterflies to erupt from every part of me. And when the girl came back she stroked his arm and kissed his cheek just like every Tuesday but as she did there was no emotion. Her face was blank. As if she were doing it out of habit and no longer out of want. Why? Why wouldn’t someone want to touch the pretty boys’ strong arm with ink painted into his skin? Why wouldn’t someone want to press their lips to his cheek? That want that need surges through my bones every day. Its puzzling, it’s frustrating. As she pecks a kiss his smile fades and his eyes dull and it’s sad. Is she the reason my sunshine is sad?

_Where did the light go from your pretty blue eyes?_

_How come she irons out the happy wrinkles by your eyes? My love_

Scratched into the faded lined paper that the leather journal held. I put down my black ball point pen, picked up my pencil and made a sketch of the pretty boys’ pretty face. Yet another copy to add to my growing collection. Only this one the pretty boy wasn’t wearing a pretty smile. Today they left 3 minutes early and the only thing the pretty boy was holding was a disposable coffee cup.

There I sat. Same old worn out red leather seat at the same old booth in the same old dark corner of the same old coffee shop, tapping my old black boots in the same old rhythm on the old wooden floors. Different Tuesday. One minute and 27 seconds. That’s how late they were today. In walked the loud boy, followed by the girl with the dark brown waves of hair and at last the pretty boy. They didn’t walk in together, they walked in one after the other. Holding the door for the person behind them until the pretty boy shut it on the brisk November air. Another thing that was off about the trio today other than the late arrival and lack of smiles was the apparel. Instead of the usual jean jacket, tshirt and jeans the pretty boy was swimming in big grey sweater and baggy black joggers. His eyes were empty and it was sad. Why is such a pretty boy so sad?

_Why is such a pretty boy so sad?_

_Why is such a pretty boy so sad?_

_Why is such a pretty boy so sad?_

I wrote it eleven times in my leather journal while staring at him. His pretty blonde friend can’t even make him smile anymore. Though he only tried once and what a petty attempt it was. If that was me, I’d try endlessly. But I’m just a shadow in the corner. None of them smiles, none of them talked today, the girl didn’t even buy muffins today, just their regular steaming beverages. The pretty boy didn’t touch his. He’s too pretty to be so sad, too beautiful to be so sad.

Two Tuesdays later at 3:17 the pretty boy walked into the coffee shop, alone. He looks angry and sad and betrayed. 

_Who would betray such a pretty boy?_  


His piercing blue eyes were rimmed with red and tears were on the verge of falling down his precious cheeks. The way his face was red and blotchy, I knew he was recently crying.  


_Why, why, why? Pretty boy_

He was all alone, he shouldn’t be all alone. He should be smiling and be the center of everyone’s attention. He’s the center of me attention, always, always. I glanced back up to find looking back, watching me, _me,_ with intense crystal eyes. I panic and I’m not sure if I can breathe. I feel like an intricate 300 piece puzzle and someone just tossed me off the table sending every tiny puzzle piece scattering all around. Why is he looking at me? Why is he watching me? I’m just a shadow in the corner. And then he’s standing up and walking towards my corner and _oh_. For the past three years I’ve sat here every Tuesday and watched him, the sun. I sat here in this chair in this corner, a shadow. I’ve imagined a lot of things about the pretty boy but him noticing me, him walking towards me, _never_. Not in a hundred years. I’m just an insignificant shadow, no one notices me, and I’m just a shadow. The chair across from me scratches against the wooden floor and down he sits the most beautiful boy to have ever lived. And I can’t breathe. He’s so pretty. He’s so beautiful, alluring, cute, dazzling, fascinating, gorgeous, handsome, lovely, magnificent, marvelous, radiant, stunning, wonderful, pretty. There will never be enough words to describe him. His eyes, _oh his eyes_ , like someone dumped thousands of crystals into the Tenerife sea. His skin was perfect, if it wasn’t for the blotchy red face, which doesn’t make him any less beautiful, he’d have the perfect tanned skin of someone who has lived in California all their life, sun kissed. But here we are, in a dark coffee shop on a dark, rainy, cold day in Manchester England. “Hello” he’s talking to me. His voice high with a thick Yorkshire accent and it’s the best this ever. And he’s talking to me. What do I do? No one ever talks to me. I’m just a shadow. I hardly talk. All week the only thing I’ve said was ‘excuse me’ to a little girl on a bicycle. He’s still watching me and I’m still internally freaking out. “My names Louis,” Louis. What a glorious name. “You come here often yeah?” Yeah, yes. Every Tuesday just to see your stunning face. “See you sitting all by yourself in this corner every time I come in,” he sees me? “I never see you eating or drinking anything.” You stopped doing that two Tuesdays ago. “Have you ever tried the tea and apple cinnamon muffin?” He’s talking but not expecting replies, asking questions but not expecting answers and the pretty boy is so wonderful. I could listen to him talk forever. Really. And I kind of do. I sit there and listen to him talk about himself, leaning things that I will never forget because how can you forget even the littlest things about such a pretty boy? He even asks me some questions, yes and no, I nod and shake my head slightly to answer and it’s all worth it to see him smile. I never take my eyes off him, not even to glance at the clock and I try to keep the blinking to a minimum, it’s not until a frizzy haired lady with eyes I avoid looking at, tells us that it’s closing time and we have to leave. We get up, I tower slightly over the pretty boy, Louis, but I kind of like it, the height difference. We walk to the door and I want to follow him, follow him to wherever forever. But I can’t. He smiles up at me, the world’s most beautiful eyes crinkling at the corners and my heart stops because he, Louis, is breathtaking. Louis takes my breath away but I really don’t mind. Louis gives me butterflies and it feels kind of funny but I also kind of love it. And the muscular organ that beats within my chest both races and stops completely at the sight of him smiling. And maybe I’m a little obsessed and maybe I’m a little in love but that’s okay because Louis is a pretty boy. With one last look and one last smile he says to me, “I’ll see you next week, pretty boy”.


End file.
